By Carolyn Hart
Annie Darling, proprietor of the demise on call for secret book shop, is understandably disappointed. It isn't like her p.i. husband Max to all of sudden disappear—and murder is well now not his type. but if his vehicle is located deserted on a distant highway with a brutally slain, once-beautiful younger girl close by and the homicide weapon stashed within the trunk, Annie's worst fears appear justified.
The police have Max all yet attempted and convicted—except for leader Billy Cameron, whose unshakable trust in his friend's innocence activates his removing from the case. And as a media circus descends on tiny Broward's Rock, Annie must position her personal existence in jeopardy to transparent her husband's identify. yet time is operating out—and she has just one narrow probability to unmask a killer who simply could have devoted the suitable crime.
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Additional resources for Dead Days of Summer (Death on Demand, Book 17)
Standing beneath the only lamp on the street, Sherlock Holmes was smoking his pipe. Edging our way closer in the shadows and crouching there, we quickly perceived that the situation was an impossible one. As long as Holmes was planted squarely opposite the professor's front door, we could not hope to enter unobserved except by a diversion; what that diversion might be we neither of us could imagine. In low whispers we held a brief consultation. The strategy of retreating to the street behind the house and entering through the back door was raised, but several arguments militated against such a ruse.
Toby knew me and rushed forth, straining at his lead and wagging his stringy tail with ferocious energy and good will. I responded by presenting him with a lump of sugar, brought for the purpose—a regular feature of our reunions. As usual, I offered to pay Sherman in advance, and, in accordance with his own way of doing things—at least where Sherlock Holmes was concerned—he refused. "You keep him long as you need him," he insisted as he escorted me to the door, pushing a chicken aside on the way.
I responded by presenting him with a lump of sugar, brought for the purpose—a regular feature of our reunions. As usual, I offered to pay Sherman in advance, and, in accordance with his own way of doing things—at least where Sherlock Holmes was concerned—he refused. "You keep him long as you need him," he insisted as he escorted me to the door, pushing a chicken aside on the way. "We'll settle it up later. Good-bye, Toby! Here's a good doggy! Give my best to Mr. " he called out to me as I, with Toby in tow, stumbled towards the cab.